


You're So Fetch, Mr. Ketch

by CaporalAwesome



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bi Dean, Clothed Sex, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Table Sex, Verbal Humiliation, they dont even kiss on the lips okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-22
Updated: 2017-03-22
Packaged: 2018-10-09 02:24:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10401636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaporalAwesome/pseuds/CaporalAwesome
Summary: When Dean opened the door to the bunker, he had been expecting to see his brother, and not the British psychopath who recently weaseled his way into their lives. But then, he was also holding the one thing that could seduce Dean in a heartbeat: an incredibly rare, unspeakably expensive bottle of barrel-proof scotch.Set during The Raid (12x14)





	

When Dean opened the door to the bunker, he had been expecting to see his brother, and not the British psychopath who recently weaseled his way into their lives. Dean should have known that Arthur Ketch would know the location of the bunker. He was, after all, also a Man of Letters. But after all the years he and Sam had spent treating the bunker like their home, he was a little uneasy at how quickly Ketch found him.

But then, he was also holding the one thing that could seduce Dean in a heartbeat: an incredibly rare, unspeakably expensive bottle of barrel-proof scotch.

So Dean lets him in, they pull out chairs and tumblers for the drinks, and as expected, Ketch tries to convince him to fall in line with the rest of the Men of Letters. It’s not quite the sales pitch he expected after hearing other hunter’s testimony on their recruiting tactics. Dean is not sure he likes how Ketch calls him a killer, how alike he seems to think they are. Their gazes lock, and Dean feels like Ketch is staring into his mind rather than his eyes.

They both sip their whiskey, and the silence draws on. 

“You’ve been eyeing me since we started drinking, Dean.” Ketch says, and Dean doesn’t try to deny it. The man is good-looking and has the cocky attitude of someone who knows it. Not to mention the accent and the tight motorcycle jacket that hugs a toned chest and arms.

“Congrats for noticing.” Dean mocks. Sarcasm had always come to him more easily than sincerity. Ketch ignores the quip, and puts his empty glass on the table.

“Not to be blunt, but if this is a standard Men of Letters bunker, there should be… sleeping quarters, correct?” Ketch asks bluntly. No need for subtlety when the man knows he already has Dean in his pocket. Still, Dean is taken aback by his forwardness. Usually, with men or women, he’s used to being to one with cheesy come-ons and bold attitude, and the role reversal is a bit unsettling, but mostly very, very enticing.

“Oh, so this is what we’re doing, huh.” Dean says, trying to play it off. As if his dick didn’t just jump in anticipation. He’d at least try to play a little hard to get, for his pride’s sake. “I don’t want you to get false hopes about what this is.” 

“Would you rather I screw you right here at the table?” Ketch asks, his voice low and dangerous. “Is that how you want it, Dean?” Dean’s mouth goes very dry at this, and he nods. “Very well. Strip.”

Dean feels his stomach drop at the commanding tone and sends his chair tumbling from how fast he gets up. He removes his flannel, then tugs his shirt over his head, leaving them in a pile on the floor. He can feel Ketch’s eyes on him, burning and penetrating. Dean unbuckles his jeans and shoves them down, along with his boxers, in a single motion. They get stuck around his ankles with the boots he never took off, but that seems good enough for Ketch. 

Immediately Dean feels a hand on his back, pushing him to lay his front on the table, feet still planted firmly on the ground. Ketch nudges them apart none too gently with his foot and puts his hands on Dean’s ass, feeling the muscles firm from years of running after – and from – monsters. His thumbs dip lower in the cleft of Dean’s ass, rubbing and pressing against his hole.

“Hey, you’re not going in dry, buddy.” Dean says. He’s only half joking, because if Toni Bevell’s treatment of Sam is any indicator, it’s that the British don’t mind playing rough. Retrieving Dean’s bottle of personal lubricant from a nearby lampshade, Ketch begins to coat his fingers in the slippery liquid.

“Of course not, Dean. I’m not a savage.” Ketch slides one finger in Dean’s ass, then a second. He’s going fast, but Dean doesn’t complain. He doesn’t mind the burn and the friction and instead relaxes himself, letting Ketch scissor his index and middle fingers, stretching him.

Soon, Ketch is working three fingers in his ass with one hand, holding his face to the table by his hair with the other. Ketch does not have one single hair out of place, but from where he looms over him, Dean can see sweat beading on his temple and his dick straining against his zipper.

“Fuck me already, you pompous son of a bitch!” Dean growls, now feeling very impatient at Ketch’s drawn-out preparation. If he was going to beg for cock, he was at least going to own it. 

Grabbing him by the hair, Ketch slams Dean’s face against the table. Not hard enough to hurt, but just so that it leaves him dizzy.

“Watch your tone with me, Winchester.” He presses his fingers almost punishingly to Dean’s prostate. “Now ask. Again. _Nicely._ ”

In any other circumstances, Dean might have felt embarrassed at being bossed around and roughed up while bent over a table with his precum practically dripping over his shoes. Instead, he figured that he had already thrown his pride out the window.

“Please fuck me, Mr. Ketch.” 

From the corner of his eye, Dean sees the corners of Ketch’s lips turn upwards at his display of obedience. The one hand holding Dean’s face to the table leaves to efficiently unzip and free Ketch’s cock as the other goes for the lube again. Ketch slicks himself, and soon Dean feels the blunt tip of his cock press against his ass, sliding in snugly. Ketch begins a slow back-and-forth, going deeper on every thrust. He's only tugged his pants low enough to expose his dick, and Dean can feel the rough fabric of his pants pressing against his ass.

“What would your brother say if he saw you like this?” Ketch asks, and Dean goes red in the face. “You don’t even care who I am. I know your type. You’ll sleep with any woman who lets you, but getting bent over and fucked by a man is your guilty pleasure, even if you don’t admit it to yourself. All you want is free liquor and a cock up your arse.” As Ketch talks, his rhythm accelerates, making Dean whine. That husky voice and the accent are overwhelming.

“Disgusting boy. You’re not even denying it. You’re actually getting off on it.”

Dean moans through Ketch’s rant, unable to protest because the man is, in fact, spot on. Dean is mortified at how he does enjoy the humiliating tirade as much as the drag of the cock in his ass. He reaches for his dick, trying to get a little more stimulation since it doesn’t seem like Ketch will help him along. Seeing Dean try to palm his straining dick, Ketch quickly slaps his hand away.

“Tut tut. Where are your manners, Dean?” Ketch purrs. He knows by know Dean is playing by his rules willingly. He might as well push the game as far as it’ll go. “You need to ask permission, or you don’t get to cum.” Dean gulps. He’s never been with such an authoritative man, and he is surprised at how much he enjoys it.

“May I please touch myself, Mr. Ketch?” Dean asks between two pants.

“Let me see.” Ketch gives a particularly hard thrust, then quickens his pace.  
“You may.”

His legs go weak, and it takes Dean two, three strokes before he cums all over the floor, clenching around Ketch. The Brit bucks against Dean a few times, hips pressing firmly against his ass, before finally climaxing deep inside him. Dean’s whole body goes slack as his orgasm pulses through him. He’s pretty sure he can’t feel his toes.

After a moment to catch his breath, Ketch pulls out of Dean and produces a silken white handkerchief from his pocket, a clash with the sleek moto jacket he’s still wearing. He efficiently cleans himself and zips his dick back in his pants, cheeks barely flushed and breath already under control. He does spare one look for Dean, admiring with satisfaction the pearly white cum that’s running slowly down Dean’s inner thigh.

“Keep it,” Ketch says as he drops the hankie near Dean’s face, who is still huffing like a thoroughbred after a race, red cheek cooling against the table.

“You do want to join me on this hunt, yes?” Ketch asks, as if he needs to. Dean was on board before Ketch fucked him into the table, so he nods weakly. Ketch smiles that cryptic grin again. “I’ll be waiting outside for you. Don’t make me wait.”

As suddenly as he arrived, Ketch strides up the stairs and out of the bunker, the heavy door clanging after him.

 _Oh,_ Dean thinks. _I’m screwed._

**Author's Note:**

> Did I write this just so I got to put this as a title, you ask? Yes. Yes I did.
> 
> Disclaimer: author doesn't share Dean's opinion on Ketch. He's just okay looking.


End file.
